


Writing What You Know

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Greg Lestrade is an aspiring novelist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone has to have written this at some point, right? It's just too delicious a mental image.

Someone shook his shoulder gently, and Greg made a whuffling noise as he surfaced from sleep, his arms crossing over his laptop bag defensively. “Relax, mate,” Toby advised him, backing up--but not before Greg got a whiff of serious coffee breath. “Time to wake up, don’t you think? Nine o’clock.”

“Christ, really?” Greg rubbed at his left eye, the one more stubborn at opening, and peered around the coffee shop. “I outlasted the students, then.”

“Easy when you’re sleeping,” Toby pointed out, and handed him a small paper cup. “Latte to see you home.”

Greg took a sip and nodded. “Ta,” he said, and stood up to stretch. Third Cup’s the Charm was closing for the night, and he was the last customer inside--nope, not at all. The skinny bastard in the black coat had coaxed one last cup out of Molly, the mortuary sciences student who desperately needed to realise she could do much better than, well, a bastard in a black coat. 

“Why do you let that kid in here?” he asked Toby quietly.

Toby rolled his eyes expressively. “Better she learn here than out there,” he said vaguely, and added louder, “now get out of here, you reprobate.”

“I’ll have you know I’m highly principled,” Greg said. “See ya, Mol!”

“Night, Greg!” she called back, waving cheerfully from behind the bar. Skinny Bastard was staring at Greg now, his cold, pale eyes flickering up and down his form. Sussing out his secrets, Greg was sure; he’d been betting against the students earlier, saying he could tell them all about themselves. Won fifty quid out of the group as a whole; impressive shit. But still shit.

“Night, all!” he called back, and hustled out the side door. It was damp and chilly, but not actually raining, and he turned the collar of his old jacket up against the wind before starting the short walk back to his flat. 

He knew that Skinny Bastard was following him, and wondered vaguely for a moment if they’d end up fighting, but probably not. The kid seemed to enjoy earning his money through the mental exercises earlier, and if he was as good as he seemed to be, could probably tell Greg wasn’t one to be taken lightly. 

Still. “Not interested, kid,” he called over his shoulder, and then slouched in view of a CCTV camera. He wasn’t one to take chances. 

Skinny Bastard avoided the camera neatly, which made Greg’s eyebrow go up of its own accord. “Can I have a cigarette,” the kid said--too flat to be a request, too short to be answered with anything more than a snort. After a moment, he tried again. “You’re a writer.”

Greg had a few short stories under his belt, experience writing a column that had died two years ago, and a novel in the works that had yet to be seen by any other eyes. ”Yeah, and?”

The kid nodded to himself. “Do you do poetry?”

“I--” Greg’s voice cut out, and he stared. 

“I need a few poems that I can say I’ve written,” the kid said, hunching into his coat. “Nothing too sentimental or, God forbid, romantic, and nothing published.”

“What do you need them for?” Greg asked, straightening from his habitual slouch. “You’re not publishing anything I’ve written under your--”

“I have no interest in being a poet,” the kid interrupted, sneering hard at the final word. “I have to infiltrate a writing group.”

“Infiltrate,” Greg repeated, a smile tugging at his lips. “Right. Spy stuff?”

The kid drew himself to his full height, and Greg couldn’t say he wasn’t a little impressed by the coldness of that stare. “More like murder stuff, Mr. Lestrade.”

“How--” Greg’s voice stopped again, as the kid held out his wallet. He’d stolen Greg’s wallet, and how the fuck--when? “When’d you grab this?” he demanded, snatching it back. He started to go through it, checking for his cards and money.

“You shouldn’t sleep in coffee houses,” the kid said, and held out his hand. Greg stared at it, before realising that the kid actually thought he was going to shake hands. “Sherlock Holmes. Shake?”

“Not with thieves, I don’t,” Greg said, backing up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s all there. I gave it back.”

“You took it in the first place,” Greg said, tucking it into his inside coat pocket. “What do you mean, murder stuff?”

Sherlock smiled. It wasn’t a real smile, like a normal person would have, but a barely there, sharp little stretch of the lips. “Give me some poems and I’ll give you the story.”

“I don’t write murder mystery shit,” Greg said, stepping back.

“Of course you don’t. That would be too interesting,” Sherlock said, and sighed in disgust. Greg, belatedly remembering his coffee, took a sip and waited. “Fine. Five quid a poem.”

“With a guarantee--”

“With a guarantee I won’t put my own name on your drivel,” Sherlock snapped, and held out his hand again. “All right?”

Greg hesitated, but honestly, he wasn’t exactly writing anything up to publishing lately anyway, and no one expected that in writing groups. And he could always use the money. “All right,” he said, and shook Sherlock’s hand.

“Tomorrow, the coffee house,” Sherlock said, and then turned away, coat swirling behind him.

“What do you mean, tomorrow?” Greg shouted after him. “I have work, you know? Oi!”

Sherlock disappeared into the night, and Greg huffed out a sigh, glaring about irritably. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t write during his shift. Hell, it’d be a sight more interesting than reading "instructions for use." And maybe, he thought with some cheer, he’d be inspired by his surroundings, and write something that could shock Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

He finished his coffee and dropped it in the bin on the corner, meaning to pull out his cigarettes. As it turned out, however, he didn’t have any.

“Oh, you bastard,” he snarled, checking frantically--no, his lighter was gone, too. For fuck's sake.


	2. Chapter 2

*********

“Hey, your rent’s due,” Sally said, peering out of the kitchen as Greg trudged up the stairs.

“What have you done now?” he asked. “Were you trying to cook again? Sally, I swear...”

Sally scowled at him. “The food is fine. It’s the sink that’s the trouble.”

“I’ll look at it in a minute,” Greg promised her, and went to drop his bag in his bedroom. Sally was a rookie PC with enough smarts to get her to Inspector, Greg judged, if she could keep a hold on her temper. They’d been flatmates for a few months now, sharing a sitting room and a kitchen; they each had their own bedroom and ensuite. 

At some point she was going to move in with a boyfriend or get married, and Greg would be out the best flatmate he’d ever had, barring the cooking mishaps. But such was life.

Greg raised his eyebrow at the kitchen table. “Takeaway?”

“The noodle thing didn’t work out.” Sally was perched on the counter, staring into the sink. “I tried to feed it to the disposal.”

“Sally!” Greg stomped over and peered the watery, noodle-y mess in the sink. “You are fired.”

“If you would get home at a decent hour and cook--”

“Are you my mum or my missus?” 

Sally hopped off the countertop and left him to it, grabbing her bit of pad thai and heading for the telly. Greg weighed his options, and decided he’d eat first, fix the sink later.

“You get any writing done?” Sally asked after he’d joined her on the sofa.

“Nothing significant,” Greg said, before stuffing his face with noodles.

“You fell asleep again.” She didn’t even make it a question, which Greg thought was a bit cheeky.

“Maybe I should quit coffee. Doesn’t seem to be doing me any good.” Not entirely true: he was pretty wired now. But that could also be blamed on Skinny Bastard--sorry, Sherlock. He was debating telling Sally about him when she continued.

“Maybe you should man up.” 

Greg stared at her, and she stared at the screen. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“You know what I mean,” she said, still not looking at him. “But you won’t hear it ‘til you want to, so why not ignore me? Like usual.”

He nestled back into the cushions, frowning. “Turn that up, then,” he ordered, and Sally obliged.

*********

“Where were you?” Sherlock demanded the moment Greg skulked into the coffee house. There were three empty cups in front of him and a fourth, half-empty, shaking in his hands. “I’ve been waiting for hours!”

“He has,” Toby said, looming over Greg’s shoulder. Greg swore and jumped. “He has been alternately conning and insulting my customers for three hours, and the only reason I haven’t kicked his arse is he says he has money for you.”

“You could’ve sent him to the shop,” Greg said, ducking his head and peering up at Toby from under his eyelashes. It got him out of trouble most times, and even straight-as-an-arrow Toby usually gave in. Today, he got a flat stare.

“You really want him knowing where you work?” Toby asked.

“He already knows where I live,” Greg said, and scratched at his eyebrow. “Nicked my wallet the other night.”

Toby sighed deeply. “So why didn’t you kick his arse?”

“Like he said, he’s going to give me money.” Greg grinned, and joined Sherlock at his rickety little table as Toby grumbled his way back behind the bar. Sherlock was glaring hard, but it was far less menacing in the middle of a coffee shop while even his hair was jittering. “Four espressos, was it?”

“It starts in twenty minutes and it’ll take me that long to get there,” Sherlock snarled. “Show me.”

Greg pulled a few sheets of torn-off notebook from his bag and held them out. “Five quid a poem, you said?”

“If I can use them,” Sherlock shot back, and started leafing through the pages. “What is--your writing’s a nightmare.”

“No real writer wastes time on copperplate,” Greg said, watching him. “Shit, aren’t they?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock snapped, his face stretched into the most ridiculous grimace. “This is modern poetry? It doesn’t rhyme.”

“No modern poet rhymes,” Greg told him, his tone dead serious. “Don’t even suggest it. It’s all symbolism, and packing at least four layers of meaning into a phrase. Rhyming’s a hanging offense.”

“What are the layers of meaning in this scrotum bit?” Sherlock asked, squinting at the page.

“Doesn’t matter. Don’t tell anyone. Let them decide, and then choose which meaning you like best.” Greg sat back, grinning again. “That’s ten poems.”

“This is ten?” Sherlock counted the sheets of paper. “There are only three--”

“There are three or four on each page. Pay up.” Greg held out his hand, palm up. “Or I follow you there, and demand that you return my work.”

“You couldn’t follow me if you had a map and a team of dogs,” Sherlock muttered, but tossed a few crumpled bills on the table. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Lestrade.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Holmes!” Greg called after him as he swirled his coat around and then out the door. “Christ, my life’s surreal.”

“It’s good for you,” Toby said, coming back around the bar with a latte. “What was that all about, then?”

“He’s going to infiltrate a poetry circle to find a murderer,” Greg said, accepting the latte. “Ta.”

“Ta nothing, you can give me this one and we’ll say five pound tip.” Toby snagged one of the ten pound notes from the table and shoved it in his pocket. “Some mystery novel shit, eh?”

“Don’t start,” Greg warned, standing up. He grabbed the rest of the notes before Toby could help himself to some more cash. “I’m getting enough of that from Sally.”

“How is my girl?” Toby asked, grinning. “Tell her I said to work harder.”

“She told me you’re not really her cousin,” Greg remarked, heading for the door.

“No shit? Thought you could have figured that out on your own!”

*********


	3. Chapter 3

*********

The next day, Greg was ten minutes late for his shift. This usually wasn’t a problem, as Irene tended to stick around after her shift had ended anyway and share gossip--and cigarettes--but today, as Greg stowed his stuff in the back room, she hurried in through the curtained doorway and hissed, “It’s about damn time!”

“What’s the rush?” Greg asked, surprised and disappointed. He’d meant to tell her about Sherlock.

“Can’t flirt with customers on the clock,” Irene said, checking her hair and lipstick in the little mirror. “And a delicious woman has been texting in the shop for an hour.”

Greg peered around the curtain. “The one with the dark hair? Oh, yeah, I see the phone. Dexterous, looks like. So you still haven’t made up with Kate?”

“She’s seeing a man,” Irene sneered, and started adjusting her bra. “Banker.”

“Wanker,” Greg rhymed absently. “She’s not shopping. Why is she in here?”

Irene snapped at her reflection, teeth clicking together hard, and then smiled. “Give me five minutes; I’ll let you know.”

“Only five?” Greg moved aside as Irene swept out into the shop, and then sidled to the stool behind the register. Irene had left some ridiculous house music on; Greg changed it for the Clash and looked over the day’s sales.

It had apparently been a good day for dildos.

For the most part, Greg didn’t mind working in a porn shop. It paid just well enough that, with his savings, he only had to take four days a week. And the clientele, while not often in the league of Ms. Blackberry with the dexterous fingers, wasn’t as bad as in the seedier areas of town. Usually it was tourists.

“Excuse me.”

Greg looked up from the clipboard, still mentally compiling the list of orders he’d have to make, and met the polite, reserved expression of a bloke in a three piece suit that was bespoke, if Greg was any judge. This might very well be Ms. Blackberry’s spouse, and wouldn’t that disappoint Irene? “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I--” The man’s eyes were drawn to something behind Greg, though his expression didn’t change an iota, and Greg turned to see the new display of butt plugs with Swarovski crystals embedded in the handles.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” he asked, resolutely not smiling. It wasn’t fair to laugh at customers, or sensible from a selling standpoint.

“Indeed,” the man said, and shook himself. “Absurdly expensive for something one sticks in a partner’s rectum.”

“A good fuck’s priceless,” Greg said, and even though he still wasn’t smiling, the man’s sharp gaze told him he’d been found out. “Sorry. What was it you were looking for?”

“Actually, it was yourself, Mr. Lestrade,” the man said, smiling blandly.

Greg blinked once or twice, and then discreetly felt for his wallet. It was still there, though he noticed now that Irene and Ms. Blackberry weren’t. “Sorry again. Do I know you?”

“Mycroft Holmes.” The man held out his hand to shake before Greg could do much more than drop his jaw.

“You’re Sherlock’s brother, then?” That figured; same pale, cold stare, although this one was cleaned up and seemed more, well, civilised. Greg couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad thing. “What, is he not happy with the poems? Sent you around to collect his money? I thought I had a shit job.”

“Poems,” Mycroft repeated, his hand still held out.

“You can’t tell what students will like, or anyone else,” Greg said, sticking his hands in his pockets as if he couldn’t see Mycroft’s hand. That made Mycroft sigh, a gentle sort of chiding sound. “If he’s mucked up his infiltration, then that’s on him.”

“Oh dear Lord,” Mycroft said, closing his eyes. He’d withdrawn his hand and was resting both on the curved handle of an umbrella. “He’s infiltrating a student poetry circle to solve a crime, is he? I suppose it’s better than the alternative.” He opened his eyes again, smiling faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Lestrade. I apologise for any inconvenience I’ve caused you.”

“What did you think--” Greg’s mind clicked over horribly. “You thought I was selling him drugs!”

“I thought someone was selling him drugs, certainly,” Mycroft said, his smile deepening into something that would have been charming, if it weren’t for the aura of coldness still clinging to him. “What would I expect a man who works in a porn shop to be selling my degenerate brother in a second-rate coffee shop?”

“Well, now you know,” Greg said, refusing to rise to the bait. He turned away, making a show of going back to his clipboard. 

“Why do you work here?”

Greg dropped the clipboard onto the counter with a clatter. “Now how is that any of your business?”

He glared hard, meeting Mycroft’s impassive stare squarely until the man said, “Allow me to apologise again, Mr. Collier.”

Greg could actually feel the colour draining from his face.

“I wondered why you were working here when, as a well-known if not yet celebrated mystery author, you could surely be at home, writing,” Mycroft continued, and smiled again. 

Mind working quickly, Greg said, “Look, sorry, I get that a lot. But I’m not, actually, um. I just look like him, apparently. Not that I’ve seen him, but people say--”

“I would have expected an author to be a better liar,” Mycroft commented, and Greg felt all the colour rush back to his face, burning hot in his cheeks.

“I’m not him, all right?” he ground out between clenched teeth. His eyes darted about again; there was still no one else in the shop. “Just keep your--your notions to yourself.”

“My notions,” Mycroft repeated, stepping away. He was actually biting his lip to keep from laughing, and Greg knew that it was completely unnecessary and that there was a lot of fun being had at his expense.

“If you aren’t buying anything, then get out!” he half-shouted, and stomped into the back room.

A moment later, the little bell rang, and Greg stomped out again to try and set Mycroft Holmes on fire with his glare alone. “What?”

“I’ll take the blue one,” Mycroft said, nodding to the butt plugs with a perfectly serene expression.

*********


	4. Chapter 4

*********

“Greg?”

“I have to soak away the stench of humiliation,” Greg said, stomping past the sitting room. He heard Sally follow him but went into his room anyway, throwing his bag on the unmade bed. “I’m serious, Sally. I had a shit day.”

“It could be getting better.” He turned to see Sally directing a quizzical look at the package in her hands. “Or worse.”

“What’s that, then?” Greg stomped into the loo to get the bath running, thinking half-heartedly about drowning himself. Christ. Not only had the arsehole gone and bought the fucking plug, but he’d made Greg gift wrap it. Why the hell did he want it gift wrapped?

Why the hell was that a service the shop offered?

“It’s addressed to Mr. Collier. Can’t see a return address,” Sally said, and Greg’s skin prickled. He went back into the bedroom and stared hard at the package she was turning over in her hands.

“Sally. I need a favour.”

She looked at him silently.

“Open that up, and if it’s a butt plug, I need you to arrest someone.”

Sally nodded, then put the package on his bed and walked out.

“Way to be a friend!” Greg called after her, and settled down to glare at the package for a bit. There had to be some way to return it.

“Who’s sending your hated alter ego butt plugs through the post?” Sally shouted from the kitchen, and was back in moments with two lagers. Greg took his with a “ta” and drank half in one go. “Slow down, Mr. Collier, and skip to the last page of the mystery for me.”

“Had a run in with Sherlock Holmes’ older brother today,” Greg said, poking one finger at the package. “He knew me--or, rather, he knew I was Collier.”

“You might want to put the plug in,” Sally said, and at Greg’s start of pure horror, spit beer onto his duvet. “The bath! In the bath!”

“Jesus Christ, Donovan!” Greg gasped, and they both started laughing uproariously. 

“I have to know,” Sally gasped, still giggling helplessly. “Oh God. Open it. Open it right the fuck now.”

“I want to take a bath,” Greg protested, wiping at his eyes.

“You’ll have to--”

“Don’t,” Greg warned, and hiccoughed. “Bloody hell. You can open it. I refuse.”

“Go take your bath,” Sally said, and grabbed the package and the duvet. “I’ll throw this in the laundry when I hear the water stop running, yeah?”

“Angel.”

“But you have to finish the story afterward!”

*********

Anthony Collier had written fifteen mystery novels, the last nine of which had been bestsellers, translated into a dozen languages and for a while, there had been talk of a film. 

But Gregory Lestrade, the man behind the mask, had walked away.

“Why do you work here?” The words rang through his mind while he tried to relax, tried to soak it all away. He’d heard that before, usually with a sneer; no matter how high-end, Adler’s was a sex shop. They sold butt plugs with Swarovski crystals in the handles. There were gold-plated vibrators in the window display.

Greg had written about the place in his ill-fated column before it was canceled, and Irene’s da--who still owned the place--had been pleased enough by the matter-of-fact review that he had no problems giving Greg a job. That’s why he worked there. To supplement his income, to pay his alimony and keep on hiding in plain sight.

His picture in those damn dust jackets was twenty years old, and poorly lit. No one could recognise him from that. And Julie, for all she was a ruthless woman at heart, was not a vengeful one. She wouldn’t out him for laughs.

But Mycroft Holmes hadn’t known who he was before he entered the shop. Greg knew that. His actions didn’t make sense unless he realised, somehow, there in the midst of a few hundred high-end sex toys, that Greg was Collier.

“As long as he doesn’t Annie Wilkes me,” he muttered, and dunked his head.

Sally was waiting when Greg finally climbed out of the tub, and she had another lager ready for him, bless her. “It’s not a butt plug,” she told him, settling onto the sofa. “It’s much sexier.”

“Sexier?” Greg repeated, and she pulled a bottle of wine from behind her back triumphantly. “The hell is this?”

“An apology, according to the note.” Sally settled herself on the sofa, reading the wine’s label and humming to herself. “Posh stuff, this. Get mad at him more often, will you?”

“I hope I never have the chance,” Greg said, and scanned the note. Apologies, again, but not for his own actions--these were in advance, for his brother. “What’s this supposed to mean?”

“How about we open this, and figure that out second?” Sally suggested, hopping up. “Got a shift tomorrow?”

“No, but--” She was already in the kitchen. “Sally, if we drink it, it means we’ve accepted his apology!”

“It means you have,” Sally called back. “And if you don’t, well, I’ll drink it myself.”

Greg sat down on the sofa, still looking over the note. “Fine, I’ll just say I was trying to keep you from drinking yourself to death.”

“Should we have ice cream too?”

“Why is he apologising for his brother? His brother didn’t do anything but give me money,” Greg said, just as the door slammed open and Sherlock Holmes stalked in, glaring around at everything like a fucking demon before focusing his ire on Greg.

“Where have you been? I’ve sent you eighty-six texts. Why didn’t you answer?”

Greg’s jaw dropped. Sally peered out of the kitchen, her eyes huge.

“What’s that--is that a note from my brother? Why are you talking to my brother? Who’s this? Flatmate, obviously, and a police officer. Did Mycroft send you that wine? What did he say to you?”

Sherlock finally stopped, both walking and speaking, looming over Greg silently, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, we’re going to need this,” Sally said, and went back to pouring the wine.

*********


	5. Chapter 5

*********

Molly was giving Greg free coffee today, with wide, sympathetic eyes and gentle pats on the arm whenever she walked by while tidying up.

“He keeps texting me updates,” Greg complained. “And if I don’t answer, he’ll show up again, I know it.”

“I know,” Molly told him sadly, pausing to lean on her broom. “He used to text me, but I think he likes you better.”

“He seems to think I can offer him some insight on the artistic mind, that’s all,” Greg said, and rubbed at his left eye. It was twitching. “He was texting you when he decided it was poison, wasn’t he? He’s assembling a team so that he can gather information at each stage of his--his--”

“Ridiculous and probably illegal hobby?” Toby offered, which made Raz, the barista in training, snort.

“Just wait until he needs a place to gather his suspects, a la Hercule Poirot,” Greg told him. “He’ll choose Third Cup, and you’ll have murderers trashing the place while trying to escape and cops coming in through the windows.”

“Those bastards can use the door like everybody else.”

“But according to Sally, it’s not illegal to suspect someone of murder, join their writing group with someone else’s poetry, and befriend them under false pretenses,” Greg said, and jumped when Raz burst into laughter.

“Why don’t you write about him, Greg?” Molly asked, righting a few tumblers on her way to get the dust pan. “For your book.”

“I don’t do murder mysteries,” Greg said automatically, and met Toby’s sarcastic eyebrow raise with a flat stare. 

“You wouldn’t have to, really,” Molly said, checking in his mug as she walked by again, dust pan in hand. “Just write real life. His real life. And if that turns out to be a murder mystery, then that’s just what it is, right?”

“If Sherlock Holmes wants himself a biographer, he’s going to have to look elsewhere,” Greg said, and knocked back the rest of his coffee. “And, speaking of looking elsewhere, he hasn’t texted in ten minutes so I should probably make myself scarce.”

“I’m sending him straight to your flat,” Toby said, as Greg gathered up his things. “Greg! I’m warning you.”

“If he can’t find me here, maybe he’ll stop looking for me here, yeah?” Greg waved goodbye and legged it, ducking out into the dreary afternoon and making for the library. He scoped out a study table in the corner: no window, but an open outlet. He sat down, effectively boxing himself in before realising he’d been followed.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

Mycroft held a finger to his lips as he commandeered a chair, hooking it with his umbrella. “Quiet in the library, Mr. Lestrade.”

Greg considered pushing past him, but Mycroft sat down gracefully, crossing his legs and taking up just enough space with his gangly limbs that Greg would be forced to actually push--and as ridiculous as his life had become, Greg wasn’t yet ready to engage in physical comedy.

“What do you want?” he hissed instead, arching his back involuntarily, like a cornered cat.

Mycroft paused for a moment, and then sighed. “I wanted to ask how my brother is getting on.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

Another pause. “We aren’t speaking.”

Greg stared at him for a long moment, and then muffled a short bark of a laugh. “So you’re going ‘round to his acquaintances for news? Spying on him?”

“This is hardly spying,” Mycroft said, sounding irritated. He tapped his fingers on the handle of his umbrella. “I worry about him.”

“Because of the drug habit.” Greg sat back, starting to enjoy this. “It isn’t that you two aren’t speaking, is it? He’s not speaking to you.”

“There’s no material difference--”

“You’re too bloody alike, is the problem,” Greg interrupted, and watched with rising delight as Mycroft froze, unable to retort. “Wait, did I just win?”

Mycroft blinked and shook himself. “You have your own--”

“No, shut up,” Greg said, grinning widely. “I just won. I rendered you speechless.”

“For a moment,” Mycroft allowed, rolling his eyes. “It was--”

“Give us a moment to enjoy it, will you?” Greg only grinned wider at Mycroft’s glare. For a duration of maybe thirty seconds, they were silent. “Yeah, all right, go on.”

“He won’t speak to me, he won’t answer my calls, and he hasn’t since he was rehabilitated,” Mycroft said, with admirable smoothness. “I’d simply like know how he’s getting on, as I said.” Then his expression became softer, more sorrowful. “He’s my brother, Mr. Lestrade. My younger brother. I’m supposed to look out for him, and I’ve already failed him once.”

Greg sighed, and leaned closer, his voice low and confidential. “Mr. Holmes. Mycroft.” He paused, looking up at him, trying to assemble his thoughts. “I’m a writer, so every once in a while, I pay attention to the details.” Mycroft started to sit up taller, and Greg followed his lead. “You give me this sob story about a little brother, who happens to be an adult who can make his own damn decisions, and by the way, I only have your word that he was an addict. I’m not informing on him, all right? Piss off.”

Mycroft stood, pushing the chair back as he did, smiling again. It was, oddly, a pleased smile. “Mr. Lestrade. Greg.” He nodded his head, in a manner like bestowing applause. “I won’t underestimate you again.”

“See that you don’t,” Greg shot back, and turned away, meaning to dig his laptop out of his bag. But then Mycroft’s hand was resting on the table, and his breath was warm on Greg’s ear.

“And if you’d like to know why you’re suffering writer’s block, Mr. Lestrade, Greg,” he stressed Greg’s name, making Greg shiver, “let me know. I notice things too. You could say it’s a hobby of mine.”

Then he was gone, his warmth and overwhelming sense of presence gone with him. Greg put his hand over his mouth to muffle his deep, shocked breaths, and could just hear, over the deafening sound of blood rushing through his veins, the umbrella tapping lightly on the shelves, marking Mycroft’s passage.

*********


	6. Chapter 6

*********

“He wants you,” Irene said in a sing-song, spinning a collar around a riding crop like a hoop.

“Yeah, because we’re kids on the playground and pushing me off the swings is love,” Greg said, and snatched the collar away from her.

“Hey!”

“I’m trying to put together a display!”

Irene swatted him with the riding crop, lightly enough, but Greg still yelped. “You, you, you. It’s always about you. You’re trying to put together a display, you’re being stalked by a gorgeous man who knows your deepest darkest secrets, you’re filling out a pair of jeans so nicely I’m tempted to pinch.” Greg edged away from her, angling his backside to the wall. “You’re so selfish, Greg. Let’s talk about me for a minute, hm?”

“What about you?” Greg held up his hands as Irene raised the riding crop again. “I love your hair so gorgeous where did you get it done?”

She burst into laughter and took another collar from the display. “You’re so insincere, I love it. I wanted to ask you to get the assistant’s name for me.”

“You didn’t catch her name?” Greg gave up on the display, deciding to toss another collar at Irene and see if she could catch and twirl it.

“Can you believe it?” Irene snorted, easily spinning the two collars. Greg tossed yet another. “I have her number, and we’ve been texting--”

“You got her number but not her name?”

“She’s a tough one,” Irene said, and the door opened with its supposedly classy, low-chiming tone. Greg felt his face freeze into a grimace; Sherlock had arrived.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he asked, and the sheer volume of answers Greg had for that question left him unable to say anything.

“So this is the little brother,” Irene said, looking him over. She touched the riding crop to her cheek and added, “Pretty.”

Sherlock looked her over quickly and dismissed her, turning back to Greg. “So she’s met Mycroft, has she? That day he found you here. You haven’t spoken to him since, have you? Did you follow my instructions?”

“What instructions?” Greg asked, finally managing to get some words past his bewilderment.

“If he asks you to spy on me, to say yes,” Sherlock said, and read Greg’s expression before Greg knew it had changed. “You didn’t! You idiot!”

Greg scoffed. “What, you want me to spy on you?”

“Wait, this is the protective older brother?” Irene asked, and grinned. “Greg, if you’d said yes, he wouldn’t have trusted you to keep an eye on Junior.”

“But you said no,” Sherlock continued, sparing a moment to glare at Irene, “proving your worth as a nursemaid. I hope you’re happy; you’ll never be rid of him now.”

“If he’s rid of you, he will be,” Irene pointed out, making Sherlock’s eyes go wide in shocked anger. “But even that’s not true, is it?” she added, smiling archly at Greg.

“You are pissing everyone off right now,” Greg told her.

“What does that mean? What does she mean?” Sherlock stalked forward, fury making his face look almost demonic. “You aren’t dating him, are you? I thought you had better sense than that!”

“I’m not dating him!” Greg cried out and, far too late, started looking for exits.

Sherlock swooped in to poke Greg in the chest. “Don’t. Start,” he hissed, and then swirled about dramatically to walk away. After two steps, he stopped, and turned again. “Also, I’ll be staying at yours tonight. I’ve been kicked out of my flat.”

And then he was gone, the chime sounding again as the door opened and shut.

“What did he say?” Greg asked just as Irene started shrieking with laughter.

*********

Toby shook his head. “Not going to happen. Go home.”

“Sally will kill me,” Greg said again. “Please, I’m begging you--”

“Poor Greg,” Molly sighed. “I’d let you stay with me, but I still live with my parents.” She blushed when Greg and Toby both looked at her, and went back to cleaning the machines.

“You can stay at mine,” Raz offered from the back room. “Fair warning, though, we’re likely to be raided by the cops again.”

“What for?” Greg asked, after a pause.

Raz came out of the back with a mop and shrugged. “Little old lady lives downstairs, makes her own entertainment. We’re searched for drugs regular. She gives us biscuits, though.”

“Sally will understand,” Toby said soothingly, patting Greg’s shoulder. “You can’t murder a bloke and still be a police officer. She’ll only make you wish you were dead.”

“You are such a comfort to me,” Greg said.

“Bros before hos, Greg. I have to follow my code.” Toby clasped Greg’s shoulder once more and went to check the register. 

Greg’s mouth fell open. “Wait, am I the ho in this scenario?”

Toby made a little humming sound before answering. “Well, Sally’s definitely the bro.”

“I’ve known you thirty years!”

Toby pointed at him with a stack of notes. “Time doesn’t make bros. Watching the same programmes does.”

“Reality television is everything that is wrong with the world,” Greg said, and headed for the door. “When Sally murders me, I’m going to haunt your fucking shop.”

“How is that any different from now?” Toby shouted as Greg let the door slam shut behind him.

*********


	7. Chapter 7

*********

Greg crept into the flat as silently as he was able, which wasn’t nearly as silent as he needed to be. Sally popped out of her room like a cork from a champagne bottle, shaking with fury.

“I had a date!” she told him, her voice rising into a shriek. “Why did you let him in here?”

“I didn’t!” Greg protested, and Sherlock joined them from the sitting room, wearing Greg’s pyjamas and looking irritated. “What are you wearing?”

“Don’t be an ass,” he was ordered. “Also, shut up. Don’t make that woman come back up here.”

“Mrs. Rosewell is very upset with us,” Sally growled, “because you let this--this freak in here!”

“I didn’t!” Greg said again, to no avail.

“He ruined my whole evening--”

“She’s dating a married man and--”

“Unhappily married!”

“And the descriptor is more important?”

Greg was assailed by a horrifying vision of Sally ripping Sherlock’s throat out with her teeth, and moved to separate them. “Stop it, for fuck’s sake! Sherlock, a squatter doesn’t get to make judgements--”

“I’m not judging,” Sherlock snapped. “I’m stating a fact. They’re the ones who took it badly.”

“And Sally, please, please,” Greg begged, grabbing her hands. “He’s already here and your night’s already ruined; can we please all just go to sleep?”

Sally gaped at him.

“Sensible,” Sherlock said approvingly. “I agree. Good night.”

“I will kill you!” Sally roared, reaching for Sherlock’s throat.

“Sally, he’s had a bad day, too,” Greg pleaded, grabbing her and lifting her off the ground in a hug. She fought him for a second, but then hung limp in his arms. “He got kicked out of his flat.”

“I wonder why?” she asked, her voice heading for the upper registers again.

“I was unable to pay my rent,” Sherlock told her, and turned around as if to flounce back into the sitting room. Greg caught him by the collar of his shirt.

“Why can’t you pay your rent?” he asked bluntly. “Explain, or get the hell out.”

“Greg!” Sally hissed.

“You knew I had a soft heart when you agreed to room with me,” Greg told her, and shook Sherlock. “Explain, Holmes. Did you lose your job?”

“What job?” Sally muttered.

“She’s brighter than you,” Sherlock said, knocking Greg’s hand away and facing them again. “I don’t have a job. They’re boring.”

“So how did you pay rent in the first place?” Greg continued patiently. Sally was relaxing again, detaching emotionally as she smelled the same rat Greg did, so he stopped holding her quite so tightly.

Sherlock was pouting; there was no other word for the sour expression on his face. “I had an allowance.”

“From your brother,” Greg said, his eyes going wide. “You stopped collecting it?”

“It was from our mother, but now he’s in charge of it and he--” Sherlock made an even more horrible face, gesturing violently. “He asks questions, and wants to know why I want money and where I spend it and on what! I don’t need him breathing down my neck!”

“You mean he can’t suss it out by looking at you?” Sally asked poisonously.

“Shut it, Sally, you’re not helping,” Greg said, and got elbowed in the gut for his trouble. “Ow! Sherlock. If I mediate this for you, will you promise not to break into my flat again?”

“If you--” Sherlock broke off, staring at him with furrowed brows. “Oh. You are attracted to him, then. Idiot.”

“What?” Greg shook his head. “I don’t want to kick you out on the streets, but I don’t want you living with me. Since we’re friends now, enough that you can invite yourself into my home and wear my clothes--”

“Friends?” Sherlock snorted, but there was a glimmer of something, confusion perhaps, that caught Greg. 

“Soft-hearted,” Sally muttered. “More like martyr complex.”

“So I’ll get this sorted for you,” Greg said, his voice softening. “All right?”

Sherlock hesitated, but nodded. Then he ruined the entire moment by adding, “You are attracted to him, though.”

*********

Irene looked up before hitting the send button. “You’re sure about this?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” Greg looked up from the computer, where he was ordering more lube. The vegan options were nearly depleted, and he didn’t know why he found that so amusing, but he did. 

“This is only going to involve you in their lives further,” she said frankly. “If you’re looking to be rid of them, this--” she waved the phone-- “is not the way to do it.”

Greg sighed, and let his shoulders droop. “Fine. You got me. I’m not looking to be rid of them.”

“Because you’re aching for cock, right,” Irene sighed, and pressed the send button even as Greg knocked the keyboard over in his frantic, spoken and gestured denials. “Now, now, I remember Big Brother. He’s fit. Not quite as ethereal as Little Brother, but possibly you could kiss him without getting a shave. Those cheekbones, mmm.”

“Your sexual frustration is tearing our friendship apart,” Greg said, picking up the keyboard. “Fuck, it’s--the thingy’s out. Fix it?”

“You’re impossible, what are you?” Irene shooed him out from behind the counter and plugged the keyboard back in, finishing up the ordering herself. Greg grabbed the orange feather duster and wandered over to the DVD section.

“You could date him!” Irene called to him, and Greg snorted. “No, I’m serious. I think he’s attracted to you, his brother thinks you’re attracted to him; from the point of view of two outsiders, it’s mutual!”

“Let’s make a list of things he and I are both interested in,” Greg said, and flourished the duster. “Oh, we can’t, because I don’t know anything about him!”

“One, that’s what dating is for,” Irene called back. “Two, you’re both interested in the health and welfare of Little Brother, and three, I’ve read reviews of these Swarovski plugs and--”

“I’m old and mildly prudish, thank you!”

“You’re not old.” Greg looked up to find Irene leaning on one of the sturdier shelves, smiling at him fondly. “You’re afraid of trying again, because it didn’t work out before.”

“And what if I am?” Greg asked, turning back to his dusting. “I don’t have to be with anyone. I don’t have to try again.”

“But you want to,” she said gently. “It would be one thing if you didn’t, but you do.”

He was saved from answering by her phone beeping--text from Anthea. Irene made a considering noise and held out the phone for him to see: “Will come with car, 10 min. -A.”

“What, today?” Greg said, and looked up at Irene with wide eyes.

“Of all the days to be wearing your skinny jeans,” she said, and laughed.

*********


	8. Chapter 8

*********

“Hello, gorgeous. Pardon the, ah, delay; Greg’s freshening up.”

“I am not freshening up!” Greg shouted. 

“Mr. Lestrade, I do have places to be,” Anthea called, sounding more bored than anything. Greg considered running out the back door, but it had been his idea. He’d just thought he’d have a little more time to figure out what the fuck he was going to say to Mycroft.

And he thought he would be wearing pants, Christ. The washing machine, which he hadn’t managed to tinker back into working order, was supposed to be fixed tomorrow, and he’d thought he could make it until then. 

“You must be able to make dinner sometime this week,” Irene was saying when Greg finally emerged from the back. She ran her finger over the buttons of Anthea’s crisp white blouse, pouting prettily. “Even just a nightcap?”

Anthea pursed her lips. “Depends on the outcome of this meeting, hm?” She looked over at Greg and raised her eyebrows. “Nice jeans.”

“They’re better from the back,” Irene told her.

Greg knew he was blushing like a teenager, but decided the best plan was to pretend like he wasn’t. “Are we going?”

“Are you coming back here after you’ve spoken with Mr. Holmes?” Anthea asked, and looked down at her Blackberry. 

“Yeah, sure,” Greg said, exchanging a quick glance with Irene; she shrugged and went back to toying with Anthea’s buttons.

Anthea smiled, then, not looking up, her thumbs flying over the keyboard. “Then I’ll stay here. I hope you have a productive meeting, Mr. Lestrade.”

“Lock the door on your way out,” Irene added, and hooked her finger into Anthea’s blouse. Greg did so, pulling the door shut and turning around to see a driver waiting by the door of a shiny black car.

“This was not a good idea,” he said to himself, and tried to open the door again before remembering he’d locked himself out.

“Mr. Lestrade?” the driver said, and touched his cap. “You’re to see Mr. Holmes, correct?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, looking up and down the street quickly. There were more than a few people milling about, checking out the car, possibly expecting someone famous to be getting in or out. Instead, in his skinny jeans and beaten leather jacket, Greg Lestrade climbed into the back seat and let himself be shut inside.

“So this is how I die,” he whispered to himself, and stared at the window, charting their course as the driver got in and pulled out into traffic. Winding about the city, they eventually pulled up to a large white building, a club, Greg presumed, spying out the placard as the driver led him, not to the front, but to a side entrance.

The Diogenes Club. He itched to type out a text to Sally, just in case.

The driver knocked on the door and spoke in hushed tones to the young man who opened it, both of them giving Greg a once over before the driver touched his cap again and started to walk away.

“Oi, wait!” Greg cried out, and started to go after him.

“Sir, if you’ll come this way?” the young man said, beckoning to him. “You’re here to see Mr. Holmes, correct?”

“But--” Greg pointed after the driver. “Is he leaving? I have to get back to work, you know.”

“He’ll be here when you’re finished, sir,” the young man said, and smiled reassuringly. Greg glared back. “Welcome to the Diogenes Club. As a guest, you’re not bound by the rules, but I must ask that you maintain silence until in Mr. Holmes’ office.”

“Do I have to sign some sort of form?” Greg asked.

The young man smiled. “That won’t be necessary, sir. This way, if you please.”

Greg shook his head, sighing in disgust. “This place has Mycroft’s stink all over it.”

“Silence, please, sir.”

The young man led the way, down a long, beautiful corridor of solid, earthy materials and tone, stopping at a door that looked no different from the others--there were no numbers or names. He knocked very quietly, and Greg tried not to let his shoulders hunch too much at hearing Mycroft call, “Enter.”

“There are people who will miss me, all right?” he hissed at the young man, who smiled even more widely and gestured for him to go in. Greg turned the knob, looking back at the young man, who gestured again for him to go, and finally opened the door.

“Mr. Lestrade,” Mycroft said formally. He was leaning against a large desk, which was nevertheless dwarfed by the size of the room. Greg stared around at the walls, some obscured by shelves of books, at the deep chairs placed here and there, at a drinks table--a drinks table, for fuck’s sake! “Please close the door.”

“The hell is this place?” Greg asked, shutting the door behind him. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, leaving blocks of bright light on the rich, crimson rug. Mycroft straightened and Greg swallowed hard; skinny jeans versus three piece suit, and he’d already lost all advantage.

“You didn’t see the sign on the way in?” Mycroft gestured for him to take one of the chairs, and meandered over to the drinks table. “We are in the Diogenes Club. Care for a drink?”

“Do you do this to people often?” Greg asked, walking forward. “Suss out their secrets, invite them to your strange secret club in the middle of London, offer them drinks, maybe murder them?”

“That sounds like a very sensational novel, Mr. Collier,” Mycroft said, not looking around. “Brandy, perhaps?”

“I drink beer.”

“Vodka, on the rocks?”

“If you promise not to murder me.”

Mycroft poured a small glass, and turned around with a smile. “I promise,” he said, and handed the glass to Greg.

Greg looked down at it, and then met Mycroft’s gaze. “Cheers,” he said, and they touched their glasses together with a gentle clink.

“Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Lestrade?” Mycroft asked, after he had taken a polite sip. 

Greg had taken rather more than a sip, needing to calm his nerves. “I’m here to talk to you on behalf of your brother,” he said, and licked his lips.

Mycroft frowned, and walked around to sit at the desk. “Now that’s disappointing.”

“How’s that?” 

“When a gorgeous man shows up in your office sans underpants, you would hope you wouldn’t be discussing your family,” Mycroft said, setting his glass down and steepling his fingers.

Greg’s jaw dropped. “You--it’s laundry day! How can you tell? You can’t tell!”

“It’s fairly obvious,” Mycroft told him, looking Greg over appreciatively.

“But--no,” Greg said, looking around wildly. “I didn’t--hang on, did you say gorgeous?”

*********

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to MyHeartInHiding for a comment about Greg going commando. :D


	9. Chapter 9

*********

“I did,” Mycroft said, and looked Greg up and down once more. “But there are more pressing things at hand, so, what is it my brother wants?”

Greg stood very still for a moment, trying to work his brain back around to Sherlock Holmes and the reason why he was in this office, being ogled in his skinny jeans. “He, uh. Can I sit down?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft said, gesturing to the set of chairs in front of his desk. “Please do.”

Greg sat down carefully, cradling his drink and feeling more self-conscious than he ever had in his life. “Your brother says your mum gave him an allowance.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“And now you’re supposed to be in charge of it?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said again, hands folded on the desk.

“This would be a hell of a lot easier if you’d help out,” Greg snapped.

“Oh, you want the circumstances,” Mycroft said, and smiled. It was not a nice smile. “She died, two weeks after I hunted him down and had him admitted to hospital. Perhaps you have only my word for it, Mr. Lestrade, but surely you can agree that there is no reason a man in my position would fabricate his brother’s near-fatal addiction?”

“Cut it with the mister shit,” Greg told him, and leaned forward to put the glass down on the desk. “How long ago was that, then?”

“Little over a year,” Mycroft said, adding, “Greg.”

“And how long since you’ve refused to give him his allowance?”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed dangerously. “He has refused to speak to me for the past four months, during which time I have found myself unable to meet the terms of our mother’s will.”

“So he has to ask you for his allowance, according to her will,” Greg said, just managing to restrain himself from using air quotes.

“I have to be certain he’s not using the money to indulge in his habits, yes,” Mycroft said, and sighed deeply, closing his eyes for a moment. “What does he want, Greg?”

“His allowance,” Greg said, “Without having to justify his every purchase. He’s been kicked out of his flat!”

“He can always live at home,” Mycroft said brightly.

“Yeah?” Greg almost laughed. “He’s been staying at mine. I’m sure you’d just love to have him back at home.” He watched the very slight changes in Mycroft’s expression, and added, “He’s been doing experiments in the kitchen.”

“Again?” Mycroft covered his mouth after that outburst, and looked away, smiling a bit. “He once blew up our kitchen, when he was ten. You should keep an eye on him.”

“Honestly? I’d rather not.” Greg bit his lip, and reached for his vodka. “You said it’s been a year. Has he relapsed?”

“An addict is always an addict,” Mycroft said, and picked up his own glass. He seemed content to stare at it rather than drink, though.

“But he doesn’t have to be a user,” Greg countered. “He can’t know if he has the strength to keep himself off it if you don’t give him the space to find out.”

“And if he ends up unconscious in a bath tub again--”

“We’ll be watching out for him,” Greg argued, leaning forward. “Not as parole officers, but as family, as friends! Noticing if he isn’t texting at all hours, stopping over with takeaway or, or whatever other nonsense he’ll need for one of his crime-stopping schemes.”

Mycroft was half-smiling, but in an incredulous sort of way. “He isn’t much about stopping crime as deducing how it happened.”

“That, then,” Greg said, and sat back. He took another drink, starting to feel a bit warmer. “We’ll treat him like an adult and see if he can’t become one. And he has to leave my flat, I swear Sally’s going to kill him.”

“Sally being...?”

“My flatmate.” Greg peered into the depths of his glass; what, was it empty already? “He ruined her date the other night. She almost strangled him.”

“She sounds like a sensible person,” Mycroft said approvingly.

Greg lifted an eyebrow. “You approve of people intending violence toward your brother?”

“Of course not,” Mycroft said, smiling. “I merely admit it shows sense.”

Greg snorted and looked into his glass again, surprised when Mycroft plucked it from his grasp. “What?”

“Did you want another?” Mycroft looked down at him, the same odd little smile on his face. It was nicer from this angle, Greg decided, staring up at him. He became aware, slowly, that he was--not drunk, but affected. Due to breakfasting only on coffee and half a pumpkin muffin, no doubt.

“Should I?” he asked.

Mycroft laughed without making any noise, his eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. “While I would usually advise against such a thing, I can promise that nothing untoward will happen to you, if you should choose to,” he said, and leaned back on the desk, awaiting Greg’s decision.

“Go for it,” Greg said, sitting up and waving toward the drinks table.

This time Mycroft laughed aloud, and went as instructed, saying, “You’re very trusting.”

“Sometimes you have to be!” Greg said triumphantly, pointing at him.

“Oh, bravo,” Mycroft said, looking over his shoulder at Greg and making a face. “Can we talk about your personal defects now?”

“The washing machine broke,” Greg said, and was surprised to see Mycroft lower his head, his shoulders shaking. “You all right?”

Mycroft straightened, and brought Greg’s drink over to him. “Your jeans are not a defect,” he said kindly, “though they do point out a certain level of vanity.” His eyes traced the lines of Greg’s legs, going higher as Greg shifted awkwardly.

“That’s not nice,” Greg said, crossing his legs and lifting his chin. “I’m not vain.”

“Not enough,” Mycroft agreed, and leaned on the desk again, so that Greg’s foot was a mere inch from Mycroft’s leg. “But no one publishes a book without some trace amount of vanity.”

Greg shifted again. “Let’s not talk about that,” he said, and took a sip of his drink.

“I thought you wanted to know why you’re suffering writer’s block,” Mycroft said innocently, but his hand was on Greg’s foot now, tapping on his shoe laces. Greg was mesmerised.

“Did I?” he asked belatedly.

“You’re afraid,” Mycroft told him.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Would people stop saying that?”

“Maybe you should listen.” Mycroft tapped his foot harder, to make his point. “You’re afraid your novel won’t succeed, that your success was entirely dependent on a character and premise you’ve grown tired of, that you no longer enjoy. And you feel guilty for having outgrown it, because your fans haven’t, and does that mean you’re betraying them?”

Greg blinked at him, mouth hanging open. 

“You can’t write for them any longer, but you’re still too afraid to write for yourself,” Mycroft finished, and stroked over Greg’s ankle. Greg swallowed and stared at his hand, at the long fingers working the hem of his jeans up. “That’s why the words won’t come. I have to learn to trust my brother, and you--” He squeezed Greg’s ankle again-- “have to learn to trust yourself. Although I personally think you have the safer option.”

“Do you,” Greg said, watching as Mycroft withdrew his hand, putting it back on the desk, with a faint, hollow sting of disappointment.

“I do,” Mycroft said softly.

*********


	10. Chapter 10

*********

Sherlock, having moved most of his things in while Greg was negotiating with Mycroft, moved out four days later, taking a flat with a man he’d met in a morgue.

“It was the lab,” Sherlock corrected tersely. “Sally, that is fragile--Sally!”

“Fragile?” Sally set the box down and Sherlock darted over, fussing over it and listening carefully as he lifted it up. “It’s filled with fucking bricks!”

“It’s filled with extremely delicate equipment!”

“Fine, you met in the lab,” Greg said, hoisting another box. “Hurry it up, you two. Toby won’t let us have his car forever.”

“Take the one with the books,” Sherlock said, curling around the first box protectively.

“Which is the one with the books?” Sally asked, her voice strained. Sherlock nodded to the largest box and Sally put her hands in her hair, pulling it back from her face and counting softly under her breath.

“Take this one,” Greg said, pushing it into Sally’s arms. He grabbed the box of books and started to lift, before letting it thump back down. “On second thought, grab the other end of this one. We’re moving half a library, I think.”

Sally dumped the current box on the table. “Where in the hell did you get all this shit?”

“This is less than half of it,” Sherlock told her. “Molly’s bringing the rest.”

Molly met them outside of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock’s new home, together with Raz,his girlfriend Soo Lin, and six more boxes of Sherlock’s things. Introductions were made, boxes were hauled upstairs, and Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, volunteered her kettle to make tea.

“Is this a human skull?” Sally demanded, peering into one of the boxes.

“Is this a cow skull?” Soo Lin asked, peering into another.

“What a party,” Raz murmured, and handed Greg a beer.

“Oh, thanks.” Greg looked up to see a bloke staring from the doorway, his eyes a bit wide. “Hello, hey! Are you the flatmate?”

“Run while you still can!” Sally shouted, holding up the skull. Sherlock grabbed it from her.

“Yes, hi, I’m John,” the man said, and shook Greg’s hand gratefully. “You’re all, uh, Sherlock’s friends?”

“Christ, is that what we are?” Sally asked Soo Lin, who tried to muffle a laugh.

“Yeah, I--”

“This is John,” Sherlock said loudly, butting in to control the conversation, looking a bit wild. “He’s a doctor. John, this is Greg. He works in porn.”

John’s jaw dropped. Raz snorted beer all over his shirt sleeve.

“I don’t work in porn,” Greg said. “Don’t tell people I work in porn; you don’t know what it means.” He turned back to John. “I work at a porn shop.”

Sally and Soo Lin were both laughing now, trying to hide behind the cow skull.

“He’s a writer, really,” Sherlock said, before John could say anything. “Mystery author, wrote under the name Anthony Collier.”

“Oh, really?” John said, as Greg started to sputter. “I’ve read a few of your books, then. They’re very good.”

Greg wasn’t listening. “Sherlock! How did--you don’t know that!” He stopped talking, glared at everyone, and made a strong effort to drink his entire beer in one go.

“Of course I know that; who doesn’t know that?” Sherlock demanded. “Your picture’s on the dust jacket of every damn book.”

“It’s twenty years old!” Greg protested.

“The jaw line’s the same, the eyes are the same; was it a secret? Poorly conceived,” Sherlock muttered, and went to rescue the cow skull from Sally and Soo Lin.

“Do you mind if I go now? I’m late for my shift,” Greg said. 

“Same,” said Raz, and held out his hand to John. “Nice to meet you, though.”

“Right,” John said, shaking hands and looking around with a bemused smile. “See you again sometime.”

“You’re not leaving us here,” Soo Lin called out, holding up a pair of strange glass tubes. “I think they’re setting up a mad scientist’s laboratory.”

“Reanimating the skulls,” Sally added, and Greg watched John’s eyes and smile go even wider as he tried to process that.

“I’ll give you a ride,” Molly said. “Coffee shop?”

“You’ll drop me off at Adler’s?” Greg asked Raz, and at his nod, added cheerfully, “Good luck, John.”

“Oh, thanks, thank you,” John said, and looked around the flat. “Thanks.”

*********

The chime sounded, and Greg looked up to see Mycroft walking in, holding the gift-wrapped box. “Oi, what are you doing here?”

“I’d like to return this,” Mycroft said, putting the box on the counter. 

Greg tried not to grin. “I’m terribly sorry, but no returns on toys. Store policy.”

“It’s obviously never been used,” Mycroft argued, tapping the box. “You wrapped it yourself.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the policy,” Greg said, smiling now.

“This is terrible customer service,” Mycroft said, shaking his head.

Greg leaned over the counter. “Can I make it up to you?”

“Dinner? Tonight?”

“Oh, not tonight,” Greg said, making a face. At Mycroft’s lifted eyebrow he added, “Closing up at ten. Nightcap, maybe?”

Mycroft smiled, and leaned over the counter, meeting Greg’s gaze squarely. “I’ll send the car.”

Greg leaned even closer, breathing on Mycroft’s cheek. “I’ll forget my pants.”

A little shift, and then Mycroft was kissing him, a gentle, warm press of lips that heated his entire body. He pulled back and Greg started to protest, but fell silent when Mycroft put his finger on Greg’s lips.

“Tonight?” he said again.

“Tonight,” Greg agreed, and watched him go--a vision marred only by a woman old enough to be Greg’s mum, who turned from her perusal of the massage oils to check out Mycroft’s arse and then nodded approvingly to Greg.

“Right, um. Thanks,” he said, and went back to his clipboard.

He’d got Sherlock out of the flat, set up a date for the evening; it was a good start. Maybe he’d work on the novel again tomorrow.

Well, if he didn’t get any better offers.

*********


End file.
